


The Great Game (of Assassins)

by involuntaryorange



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Crack, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Mild Angst, Of the "secret longing" variety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/involuntaryorange/pseuds/involuntaryorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Opportunity doesn't knock; it climbs through your window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired entirely by a prompt by [sevenimpossiblethings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings)/consultingreaders. Trying two new things with this one: Uni!lock and writing from Sherlock's POV.
> 
> I don't expect this to be too too long, maybe 10K words, and I also don't anticipate any real angst (only your standard mooning from afar), and I _also_ don't anticipate any sex but I suppose there's a possibility that the rating might get bumped up to T. I suppose we'll find out!

It’s a Wednesday afternoon, or perhaps a Friday morning, when Sherlock’s first year at uni becomes considerably more interesting.

He’s perched on the edge of his bed, smoking out his open window and reading a book about how to synthesize poisons from common household plants. He’d had to put in an interlibrary loan request in order to get it, and the librarian looked at him strangely when he picked it up. He gave her a toothy, transparently-fake grin and she’d minded her own business after that.  

Thankfully he has no roommate to question his reading materials or complain about his smoking; he’d had a shared room when he first got to uni, because his parents insisted that it would be a good way to “make friends,” but that hadn’t lasted long. By the third explosion, his roommate had fled to the housing office begging for a reassignment, and apparently the housing office had decided it was in their best interest not to attempt to assign a replacement roommate for room 221B in Baker House. So now Sherlock has his own room, and an extra bed. He uses it for sleeping — on the rare occasion that he does sleep — because his actual bed is covered in books and other detritus.

It’s a tolerable set-up, except for the fact that his room is on the ground floor, so when he has his window open — as he does now — he’s treated to the sounds of his idiot classmates running around the quad, whooping and laughing and generally inflicting themselves on the world. But the smoke detector is wired into the main circuit and the hall advisor promised to get him into the bio lab after hours if he stopped setting it off, so open window it is.

He’s just beginning a chapter on Easter lilies when he hears shouting outside his window. He looks up just in time to see a pair of hands hook over the windowsill; before Sherlock can react, a boy is swinging himself up into the room and landing on the floor with a graceless thud. 

Sherlock takes a long drag as he examines this unexpected guest. Hasn’t sought out Sherlock: doesn’t look familiar, seems indifferent to Sherlock’s presence. Fleeing from a fight? No; not the sort who would run from battle. Small, true, but broad in a way that suggests intimidating strength. Looks the sort who gets along with people — not the type to get picked on, or to pick on someone else. And he seems to be laughing. And… is that a water pistol?

“Is he still out there?” the boy asks, still crouching on his hands and knees.

Sherlock looks out on the quad and sees another boy — tall, long-limbed, dark hair, also holding a water pistol — standing on the grass about ten meters away and squinting at Sherlock’s window. After a moment, he shrugs and starts to trudge away.

“No, he just left,” Sherlock says.

“Thank god!” The boy lets out a sigh of relief. Then, presumably spurred by the realization that he’s lying on the floor of a complete stranger’s room, he says, “Shit, sorry!” and stands up. Dusting off his jeans (worn and faded, and not in a fashionable way — a hand-me-down, most likely), he gives a self-effacing grin and says, in a tone of voice that suggests that he is explaining something, “Assassins.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Assassins? That seems unlikely. You don’t look particularly important.”

“Huh? No, no, we’re _playing_ Assassins. You know, the student council set up the game?”

Sherlock stares at him blankly.

“Er, okay, I guess you don’t know. Anyway, I’m John. John Watson.” He jams the bright green water pistol into the back of his waistband and sticks a hand out; Sherlock accepts a handshake, cigarette dangling from his lips. John’s arms are covered in scrapes at various stages of healing and bruises about the size of a sharp elbow. Rugby, most likely. “And you are…?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“That’s quite a name!” John grins again.

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise and blows smoke out the window. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see John’s grin fade as he shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Anyway, sorry for intruding, I guess I should— would you like me to use the door this time?”

“What’s ‘Assassins’?” Sherlock asks, not looking away from the window.

John pauses on his way to the door. “Huh?”

This time Sherlock turns to look at John. “You said you’re playing ‘Assassins.’ What is it?”

“Can I…?” John gestures to the other bed. At Sherlock’s nod, he sits down on it and starts to explain. “Everyone puts their name in a pool and then everyone is assigned a target. You have to shoot your target with a water pistol to ‘kill’ them. When you kill them, you inherit their target. Eventually you wind up with the two remaining people going after each other, and whichever of them gets the other one first wins the game.” 

Sherlock drums his fingers on the windowsill while he contemplates this. “Are there any rules about where and when you can ‘kill’ people?”

“You’re not allowed to shoot someone while they’re in class or while they’re sleeping, but everything else is fair game.”

“And what do you get if you win?”

“Oh, you know. Glory. Power. Girls. The usual stuff.”

“Sounds pointless.”

John shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. Short, practical cut. Blond. No, brown. No, impossible to tell at this distance. “It’s fun! You get to know people. Good exercise, too.”

“Who is your current target?”

“Phillip Anderson. Do you know him?”

“I know _of_ him,” Sherlock sniffs.

“I’ve been trying to get him for a week; he’s always with his football mates.” John shakes his head. “It’s impossible.”

“It’s easy,” Sherlock says with a dismissive wave. “What day is today?”

“Wednesday,” John says, looking amused.

“Perfect. Anderson’s cheating on his girlfriend with Sally Donovan. His girlfriend is in my chem lab tonight, which means he’ll be visiting Sally from roughly seven to nine PM. Just catch him when he leaves Sally’s apartment; he won’t be with his precious football ‘mates’ then.”

Sherlock waits for John to comment on how creepy it is that he knows this, but instead John raises his eyebrows and twists his mouth into an impressed arc. “That’s… amazing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, ‘course. Are you studying criminal justice or something?”

“No. Chemistry. And you’re pre-med.”

John’s eyebrows rise even higher. “How did you know?”

“You’re not only looking at my cigarette with distaste, you’re also carefully avoiding inhaling any smoke. Only a pre-med student or an asthmatic would be that concerned about second-hand smoke, and your little gymnastic display earlier, as well as the fact that you’re here on a rugby scholarship, suggest that asthma isn’t an issue.”

“How could you possibly— that’s extraordinary!” John is gaping like he’s just seen a poodle riding a bicycle. 

Sherlock looks out the window again to hide the smile he can’t quite suppress. Undignified, smiling just because someone _hasn’t_ told you to piss off. He stubs out his cigarette and tosses the butt out the window, contemplates lighting another one as well as what he should say next. 

But before he can make a decision about either thing, John stands up and clears his throat. “Anyway, I’ll leave you be. Thanks for letting me crash here. Literally.”

“Of course.”

“Wish me luck tracking down Anderson!”

“You don’t need luck. I just handed him to you on a silver platter.”

“Right. Well, thanks for that, too. Maybe I’ll see you around.” John gives a decisive nod and leaves. Through the door.

Sherlock silently watches him go, then stares at the door for a little while replaying their interaction. A strange interlude, but not an entirely disagreeable one. This John person, despite his appearances, was intriguing. Affable, yes, but not to the point of indifferent friendliness; stupid, but not as stupid as most; nice eyes— _nice eyes_? Sherlock rolls his own “nice eyes” at his inadvertent foray into sentimentality and returns to his reading, but not before sliding his window shut with a satisfying _thunk_. 


	2. Chapter 2

A couple of days later, Sherlock is walking across campus when he hears someone shouting his name.

“Sherlock! Hey, Sherlock!”

He turns in the direction of the voice and sees John jogging toward him, backpack bouncing on his shoulders. When he reaches Sherlock he’s slightly out of breath. “John, remember?”

“Of course I remember. You made quite the memorable entrance.”

John looks momentarily abashed. “Yeah, well. Carl ambushed me on the quad and your window was the closest escape route. I was being resourceful.”

“You’re lucky all I was doing was reading a book.”

John laughs. “That’s true, it would have been a lot worse if I’d come tumbling through your window and you’d been in bed with a girl!”

_That would be unlikely considering I’m gay_ , Sherlock could say. Or, _I certainly wouldn’t have been in bed with a_ girl _, if you get my meaning_. But for some reason he doesn’t want to see John’s face close off, to hear him try to subtly steer their conversation in a direction where he can mention his girlfriend and emphasize how very straight he is. And it’s irrelevant, anyway. “I was thinking more along the lines of a delicate chemistry experiment.”

“Ah, right.” John blushes slightly. “Are you allowed to do those in your dorm room?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Right. Anyway. Thanks for your advice on how to get Anderson! You were completely right. And he was so freaked out that I might tell someone where he was that he didn’t even care he was out of the game.”

“Good. He deserves to be ‘freaked out.’”

“Yeah, he’s a little weasel. Where are you headed?”

“Uh…” Sherlock may not know _much_ about the intricacies of social interaction, but he does know that telling someone you’re headed to the lab to dissect a sheep’s brain for fun is on the abnormal side of things. “The library.”

“I was going to go grab some dinner. D’you wanna join me?”

“I don’t really eat.”

“You don’t… eat?”

“Digestion slows down my brain. Waste of time.”

John looks equal parts amused and baffled at this. “But you _need_ to eat. That’s like saying that _breathing_ is a waste of time.”

“Exactly!”

“You’re a strange one, Sherlock.”

_And there it is_. Sherlock clears his throat and straightens his jacket. “Yes. Well.” He looks around for something to pull him away from the conversation.

But John bumps against him with a shoulder and scoffs. “I didn’t mean it in a _bad_ way. C’mon, you’ve got to eat something. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor yet.”

“I’m more of a doctor than _you_ are.”

The sheep’s brain can wait a few hours, Sherlock figures. He sighs and says “fine” as though he is conceding a great battle.

***

The dining hall is always particularly crowded on Friday evenings, so John sends Sherlock to claim seats while he finds food. He grabs a small table just as it’s vacated and sits himself down, throwing his jacket over the other chair to communicate that it’s taken. He presses his palms together in front of his mouth and examines the surrounding students while he waits. _New relationship; she’s trying to figure out how to invite him back to her dorm room after dinner. Siblings; the older one resents having to eat with the younger one, but their parents are always nagging him to keep an eye on his brother. Old relationship gone stale; she’s going to break up with her within the next week._

If he were being honest, he’d admit that part of the reason he doesn’t eat much is that he doesn’t enjoy going to the dining hall alone. Nobody _bothers_ him — this isn’t secondary school — but he could do without the pitying looks people occasionally cast his way and the reminder that he doesn’t quite fit in. Sometimes he’ll meet up with Molly when their schedules align, but she’s usually busy with extracurriculars (why she insists on attending _knitting club_ he will never understand, it’s not like it’s a team activity). So he survives primarily on vending machine snacks and the occasional curry.

His reverie is interrupted when John plunks a plate of chicken tenders and chips in front of him.

“Really? This is what the ‘doctor’ recommends?”

“Hey, if you actually never eat, I’m going to try to cram as many calories into you right now as possible.”

Sherlock shrugs and tucks into his food. It’s warm and greasy and somehow exactly what he wanted. They eat in companionable silence, and before he knows it his plate is empty and his stomach is full. He looks up to find John staring at him.

“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone eat that quickly.”

“There’s no need to exaggerate, John.”

“Seriously, it was like watching a nature programme.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock can feel his cheeks turning pink under John’s scrutiny. A change of subject is in order. “Who’s your new target?”

“Oh, right! Some guy, J-something… hold on, let me check.” John reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a crumpled slip of paper. “Right, it’s Jeff Hope. Any idea who he is?”

“Hmm, never heard of him.”

“Damn, I was hoping you’d know exactly how to find him.”

“I didn’t say I couldn’t _figure it out_.” Sherlock pulls out his mobile and does a quick Google. The first result is an article from the school paper; when it loads, he lets out a triumphant “aha!”

“You got something?” John asks through a mouthful of partially-chewed broccoli.

“Apparently Jeff Hope runs the safety escort program.”

“Oh, I think I heard about that — people call in if they want someone to walk them home or to their car at night, right? Wow, that’s nice of him.”

“It would be nice of him if it actually made a difference. Their response times are too slow — haven’t you heard about all the students who’ve been getting mugged before their escort can show up?” Sherlock flicks through the article, which conveniently includes a photo of Jeff Hope. Well, convenient for people trying to hunt him down and shoot him with water; inconvenient if Jeff was hoping that being mentioned in the school paper would give him a sense of romantic intrigue. _He probably should have smiled with his mouth closed_ , Sherlock thinks to himself.

“Yeesh,” John says in his ear. He’s leaning across the table so that he can see the phone screen, face inches from Sherlock’s. He’s so close Sherlock could count his eyelashes, were he so inclined. Sherlock can smell his shampoo and hear him breathing, and he’s suddenly very aware of his own heartbeat. When John retreats back to his seat Sherlock’s muscles twitch with the urge to follow him.

“Okay, so now we know who he is and what he looks like,” John says, oblivious. “Now we just have to figure out how to find him.”

“I have a plan.”

***

The next night finds Sherlock standing outside the entrance of the library, dialing a number on his mobile. When someone answers, he puts on his best “normal person” voice. “Hi! I’m about to leave the library, and, uh, I know this is a bit silly, but I’m a little afraid to walk home by myself this late at night. I was hoping someone could come walk with me.”

“Of course, of course. Just wait out by the car park, and your escort will be there shortly.”

“Thanks!” Sherlock hangs up. “He said I should wait by the car park,” he tells John, who is standing next to him with his hands in his pockets. “There are some shrubs there you should be able to hide in.”

“Great!” John grins. “I do feel a little bad that we’re monopolizing the safety escort service just so we can ambush the escort, though.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Needs must. It’ll only take a few minutes of his time, anyway.”

They make their way to the designated location, and John finds a leafy shrub to crouch behind while Sherlock waits for Jeff Hope to arrive. Strange place to choose as a meeting spot: unlike the front entrance of the library, there’s nobody else hanging around here. Maybe that makes it easier for the escort to spot the person who called. It’s also dimly lit, with only the occasional streetlamp casting yellow light on the pavement. Sherlock shuffles his feet and can hear the gravelly sound echoing off the concrete and parked cars. He considers lighting a fag while he waits.

Suddenly someone is pressing something cold and hard into his spine. “Hand over your wallet and I won’t hurt you,” a quiet voice says.

Sherlock raises his hands in the air and slowly turns around. His assailant is a figure in a balaclava. Male. Short — maybe 170cm — and stocky, wearing track pants and an oversized sweatshirt. Estuary accent. Dreadfully crooked incisors. At his hip, a small revolver, aimed somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s midsection.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Sherlock says, squinting at the figure’s mouth in the darkness. Something familiar about those teeth.

“Then empty your pockets right now. Don’t make me use this,” the figure says, waggling the gun.

Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. “Go ahead; I could use a light.”

The figure falters. “What— you—”

“I’m not an idiot. I know what a real gun looks like. And I also know who you are, J—”

A rustling sound and a blur of motion in his peripheral vision is all the warning Sherlock has before John is tackling the figure to the ground with a yell. It’s only a few moments of grappling before John has the figure pinned with a knee to his back. “Sherlock! Are you okay?” John asks, panting and twisting the figure’s arm brutally.

Sherlock forces his attention away from the way the muscles in John’s arms ripple when he digs an elbow into the figure’s shoulderblade. “I’m fine. You rather ruined my dramatic reveal, though.” He crouches and yanks the balaclava off the figure groaning in pain and frustration. “Hello, Jeff.”

“Wait, _what_? _This_ is Jeff Hope?”

“I must admit,” Sherlock says, “it’s almost clever, lining up mugging victims under the guise of protecting them. And then, of course, you get to comfort them minutes later, once you’ve run off and changed your clothes.”

“Jesus,” John hisses. He shifts his hold so that he has both of Jeff’s wrists in one hand, then uses the other to pull the water pistol from his waistband. He unloads it into Jeff’s ear as Jeff yelps in discomfort.

Sherlock picks up Jeff’s “gun,” which had skidded a few meters away after John’s tackle. He pulls the trigger, lights his cigarette, and calls the police.

***

“That was ridiculous!” John says with a shake of his head as they arrive at the entrance to Baker House.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but he can’t quite suppress the smile he knows is spread across his face.

“I can’t believe I shot my target _and_ we caught a criminal tonight.”

“I seem to recall you did most of the catching,” Sherlock says, tilting his head in respect.

“Yeah, well. Guess rugby has real-world applications, after all.”

Sherlock murmurs an assent and looks up at the doors of Baker House. “This is where I live. You might not have realized, having never used the proper entrance.”

John’s “fuck off” is tempered by his laugh. There’s a momentary silence that might be awkward; Sherlock has never been particularly good at identifying awkward silences. But whether or not it’s awkward, John breaks it: “Hey, let’s exchange phone numbers?”

Sherlock blinks. “Oh. Sure.” He takes John’s mobile from his outstretched hand and passes his own over in exchange.

“I’m sure I’ll need your help again when I find out who my next target is!” John chuckles, entering his number into Sherlock’s contacts.

Sherlock ignores the tiny pang of disappointment. _Of course he just wants your help_. “Right. Of course.” He finishes typing in his number and they switch back.

“Excellent!” John pockets his phone. “I’ll text you. Thanks for helping me again.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” Sherlock says.

“’Night then. Sleep well!” John turns around and starts jogging away.

“I don’t sleep,” Sherlock calls after him.

“Of course you don’t,” John yells over his shoulder.

Sherlock watches his figure retreat, then enters Baker House with the residue of a smile on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes his third kill. Sherlock discovers a new mystery.

Molly texts Sherlock asking if he wants to meet for lunch, and he doesn’t have anything specifically better to do, so he agrees. He grunts a greeting as he drops into the seat across from her and sets his water glass and plate of chips on the table. He lets her lean across the table and briefly hug him hello. 

“So,” Molly says, practically bouncing in her seat. “I have news!”

“You have a boyfriend.”

Molly deflates slightly. “How did you know?”

“You have an uncharacteristically content air about you. And you’ve put on three pounds.”

“I have not!”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Ugh, I’m not going to let you ruin this. I have a _boyfriend_! He’s really cute, and he’s so sweet. He’s in my stats class and he asked me out last week, completely out of the blue! I can’t wait for you to meet him. I told him we were having lunch here and he said he might stop by. On our first date he took me to that French restaurant, what is it called? Maison de Rapide?”

Sherlock tunes Molly out as she continues gushing about her new boyfriend. Tedious. Just another thing that will draw her attention away from her studies. And she’ll have even less time to spend with Sherlock. Not that Sherlock cares about that. 

As his gaze is traveling across the dining hall, it alights on a familiar figure picking his way through the crowd, tray in hand. “John!” is popping out of Sherlock’s mouth before he can suppress it, and when John looks around the bustling hall in confusion, Sherlock’s arm shoots up into the air seemingly of its own volition, waving to catch his eye.

John smiles and waves back when he spies Sherlock, and makes his way over. His smile falters slightly, barely noticeably, when he arrives at the table and sees Molly sitting opposite Sherlock.

Molly smiles brightly and looks back and forth between Sherlock and John. When it becomes clear that Sherlock will not be introducing her, she pipes up with a cheerful, “Hi, I’m Molly!” 

“John,” he responds, squinting at her slightly.

“Will you join us?” Molly asks.

John tilts his head to the side in reluctance. “I wouldn’t want to intrude…” 

“Intrude?” Sherlock says. “What would you be intruding on? We’re having lunch.” 

“Um, okay, I guess if you don’t mind.” John slides onto the bench next to Molly and starts picking at his sandwich. 

Molly looks at Sherlock expectantly, but Sherlock doesn’t know what she’s expecting. Eventually she sighs and says, “So, John, what do you study?”

He looks up from his sandwich, in the process of removing the tomatoes from it. “Oh. I’m pre-med.”

“Me too!” Molly exclaims. “Are you in Professor Stapleton's bio class?”

“Yeah, are you?”

“Yeah! I haven’t seen you there. You must sit in the back. I’m usually in the front row with my roommate.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye out for you,” John says, squirting a packet of mustard onto his sandwich. “I’m afraid that if I sat in the front row I’d fall asleep and embarrass myself.”

Someone behind Sherlock suddenly says, “Hello, gorgeous.”

“Jim!” Molly says, turning a shade of pink that even Sherlock has to admit is rather lovely.

Sherlock twists in his seat to look at the newcomer. A slight boy with brown hair. Irish. Low v-neck; skinny jeans. Designer trainers. Hipster or gay. Presumably hipster.

Molly gestures amongst the three boys and does introductions. “This is my boyfriend, Jim. Jim, this is Sherlock and John.”

“I know who they are! You were in the school paper, right? You’re the blokes who caught Jeff Hope.”

“It was really Sherlock who figured the whole thing out,” John says, suddenly in a better mood.

“Well, it was John’s tackle that took him down,” Sherlock replies, dragging a chip through some errant salt.

“That was really amazing.” Jim sits down next to Sherlock, weirdly close. He’s also staring at him intently. “How did you figure it out?”

“It was trivial.”

“I’m sure for you it was, but I’d love to hear more about it.” Jim smiles sweetly, still aiming his laser-intense stare in Sherlock’s direction.

“Yes. Well.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Really, it was mostly a coincidence.”

“Don’t be so modest. I’m sure you were brilliant.”

John abruptly cuts in. “What are you studying, Jim?”

“Hm? Oh, computer science,” Jim answers absentmindedly. “Anyway,” he says, standing and smoothing his vest despite the fact that it’s so snug it couldn’t possibly wrinkle. “I must get to class. We’ll have to talk more about this later.”

“I’ll walk with you!” Molly offers, and starts to gather her rubbish. 

As Molly and Jim bid farewell and head toward the exit, John hunches over and whispers, “That was… _weird_ , right?”

“I think he might have been coming on to me,” Sherlock muses.

“Ya think?” John says. “I can’t believe he did that in front of his girlfriend! He was practically sitting on top of you!”

“Is this something I’m supposed to tell Molly about?”

John exhales through his teeth. “Shit, I don’t know.” He pauses, poking casually at his abandoned tomato slices. “Are you, you know.” He coughs. “Interested in him?”

Sherlock crinkles his nose in disgust. Interested in _that_ simpering idiot? “No. Definitely not.”

“Oh. Right. I mean, I was just asking.”

“Who’s your next target?” Sherlock asks, desperate for a change of topic. 

John looks grateful for the conversational escape. “Catherine Shan. Do you know her? She’s a third-year, president of the Asian Students Association.”

“Mm.” Sherlock grabs one of John’s tomato slices and pops it into his mouth. “She’s also the university’s largest distributor of illicit drugs.”

“She— _what?_ ”

“It’s a family business. Her father is the head of a drug cartel, smuggles it into the country. She’s the campus ‘representative,’ so to speak.”

“How could you _possibly_ know that?”

Sherlock apparently hesitates too long trying to think up a good explanation, because John’s expression becomes stormy and his brow furrows. “ _No_.”

 _He looks like a shar-pei_ , Sherlock’s brain unhelpfully supplies.

“Just… no. You are _not_ telling me that you’re one of her customers?”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Technically, I’m not telling you _anything_.”

“Shut it. What do you use?”

Sherlock stammers, feeling very put on the spot. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. “I, uh. I don’t use—”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John says, with an edge of threat in his voice. He sounds like he’s commanding an army. It sends a slight thrill down Sherlock’s spine.

“Look, it’s really not a big deal. I _occasionally_ use a bit of cocaine when I’m trying to work through a tough problem. It helps me focus.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John hisses. “That’s what _coffee_ is for.”

“Caffeine is a drug, too. It’s not clear to me why one drug versus another makes such a difference.”

“You _seriously_ don’t see a difference between caffeine and _cocaine_?”

Sherlock thumps his water glass down in frustration. “Why on earth do you care about this?”

“Because I don’t like it when my friends act like idiots and do stupid things that endanger their lives!”

Sherlock knows he must look dumbfounded, but he can’t help it when his jaw drops open slightly. “I’m… your friend?”

John’s brow furrows even more deeply. Really, the resemblance to a shar-pei is unmistakeable. “Of course you’re my friend. Why else would I be hanging out with you?”

“So that I can help you win Assassins.” 

John laughs, but he looks sad. “That’s _not_ why! I mean, sure, it’s a perk, but… I just have fun talking to you.”

“You’re not mocking me?”

“Of course I’m not mocking you! Is it really that hard to believe that I like you?”

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth several times, trying to work out how to respond to this unprecedented assertion. “Um. I. I like you too?”

The smile returns to John’s face and it’s like the sun coming out from behind clouds. “Good. It’s generally recommended that friends like one another.” He sobers again and points at Sherlock with an index finger. “And friends _also_ look out for one another, which is why you’re going to promise me that the next time you’re even _remotely_ tempted to use, you’re going to call me and I’ll try to help you work through whatever problem you’re struggling with.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fine. But I still think you’re making a big deal out of nothing, _Doctor_ Watson.”

“I don’t care what you think, as long as you do it.” John takes a swig of his drink and rotates his shoulders, stretching them. “Now,” he says, leaning forward, “How are we going to get Catherine Shan?”

***

Conveniently, the university’s annual Chinese Cultural Show is that weekend, and it’s trivially easy for Sherlock and John to duck into the lobby after the performance and catch Catherine as she’s thanking people for attending. She shrieks as John catches her in the chest with a stream of water, and he and Sherlock take advantage of the ensuing pandemonium to dart back out of the building and sprint away into the dusk.

They pause behind the Romance Languages building to catch their breath, doubled over and laughing. “Did you see her face?” John asks gleefully once he’s no longer panting. “You would have thought I’d shot her with a sniper rifle or something, not a water pistol!”

Sherlock chuckles and looks over at John, who is already staring at him with a delightfully silly grin. His eyes are almost a navy blue in the fading light, the same color as the sky at the eastern horizon. Sherlock wonders if he could see stars in them if he looked closely enough. John is already rather close to him. Unnecessarily close, really. Sherlock can feel the heat radiating from his body. Why is he so close?

“Ah, shit,” John says, looking at his watch. “I told Mary I’d meet her for dinner in fifteen minutes.”

“Mary?” Sherlock asks, feeling his stomach roll just a tiny bit. Surely John would have mentioned a girlfriend before now?

“Molly’s roommate, do you know her?”

“Oh. Yes, I believe I’ve met her.” Perky, blonde, reasonably attractive if you’re into that sort of thing. Which John almost certainly is.

“Molly introduced me to her in class a couple of days ago. She wanted to go over the genetics unit before the exam on Monday, and Molly’s busy with Jim. It’s sort of boring, but do you want to join us?”

The last thing Sherlock needs is a pity invite to be a fifth wheel on John’s date, so he shakes his head. “No, that’s all right. I have a time-sensitive experiment in my room that I need to attend to.”

“Oh, okay. Say no more. Especially if it involves biohazardous materials stolen from the bio lab.” Sherlock mimes locking his lips up and throwing away the key, and John snorts. “I’d better get going then. Maybe we can meet up for lunch tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Sherlock says, inwardly cringing at the thought of hearing John’s rundown of his dinner with Mary. “I’ll text you.” 

“Excellent!” John starts trotting away toward the dining hall. “See you! Have fun with your contraband organs.”

“You too,” Sherlock calls after him, realizing too late that it makes no sense. God, this is unbearable, the way that about 90 percent of his brain shuts down when John is nearby, and the remaining 10 percent turns into a Mills and Boon novel. He’s muttering reprimands to himself and walking back to Baker House when his mobile pings with an incoming text. 

> **Thank you for being gentler with Ms. Shan than you were with poor Mr. Hope. I thought you were going to be a problem, but now I am intrigued by the possibility of a profitable partnership. JM**

Sherlock stops in his tracks and looks around, but the only other people on the quad at the moment are a couple snogging on a nearby bench. He types out a reply.

> _Who is this? SH_

The response is nearly instantaneous.

> **Patience, Mr. Holmes. All will become clear. JM**

Sherlock taps a finger thoughtfully against the screen before pocketing the phone and resuming walking. He can’t help but feel a frisson of excitement at the prospect of a new puzzle. Boredom is the real reason Sherlock’s brain has been acting so… _sentimental_ lately. And this seems like it could be rather interesting.

By the time he reaches his room, Sherlock has already come up with a mental list of twelve potential avenues of inquiry into the “JM” mystery. He boots up his laptop and settles in with a smirk.


End file.
